The Stuff Of Growing Up

In our capitalist consumer society, it is inevitable that our stuff somehow reflects who we are and where we are in life. In a world where money rules, the things we choose to spend our money on, the clothes we wear, the furniture that we decorate our homes with, the music we listen to, ultimately reflects our personal identity. Included in an accurate picture of our personal identity, our stuff often reflects the stage a life we currently are travelling through. For instance, if someone has a lot of nice expensive furniture, they are more likely to be settled than someone who has merely acquired the minimal furnishings for IKEA or off the street (like I have). If we want to get a glimpse of who we are and where we are in the scheme of things, examining the stuff we've accumulated through the cash we've earned and spent is a good place to start.

We Are What We Own

Yesterday, I helped my good friend Paul move. As we hauled his furniture from his clean and simple apartment to another well decorate locale where he will be living with two others in similar situations to himself, I got to to thinking about growing up. Paul at age 27 is in the early stages of being a true grown up. He is an articling lawyer at a law firm; he is currently happy being single (but still has an active sex life); he seems to have all things of modern life (relationships, finances, career, etc..) under control. His successful lifestyle was manifest in his stuff, and especially in his furniture. His chic glass kitchen table, well complimented by minimalist clean metal/leather chairs, matching the sofa (not oppressive, but not fragile) and so on... In comparison to my own drab decor, compiled of pieces I've acquired by shopping the streets littered with other peoples furniture they decide to leave behind on moving day, I realize, that in comparing our stuff, Paul and I are at very different stages in our lives.

I have been seduced by Paul's stuff. At one time, I enjoyed the freedom of having very little. I could move at a whim and didn't need a cargo truck to do so (Like Paul does). But now, I would rather give up that freedom for a well decorated apartment with chic expensive furniture. I would rather have less of higher quality, then more of what can easily be ruined or easily thrown away. But these things do not come by mere want, they are a product of the other stuff of life; career, hard work, sacrifice, time, and of course, money.

A Way to Make A Fool Of Yourself

It serves me right for getting drunk and singing a song at Karaoke far to hard for me to sing

Wisdom From Bill #1

[Bedroomprince] sometimes you shouldn't ask questions. Sometimes you should wait till the question asks you.

As Time Goes By

As time goes by they inevitably move on. It is futile to hope that, though you find new lovers, their heart will remain pining for you. It is egotistical to ever wish for anyone that they will forever desire you and only you. It is selfish to wish love that is forever unreturned on anyone. I am seflish and egotistical and hope for what can not be.

My first boyfriend called me. He is in town. He has been seeing someone for over a year now.
I melt at his touch, but not because how I feel about who he is as a human being, but it's because someone whom cared for me very much at one time is touching me again.

I just want to be loved. I must learn how to love in order to be loved. At one time, I thought I could love him because it felt so good that he loved me.

A Social Butterfly in the Urban Jungle

When one is a social butterfly in the urban jungle, eager to meet new people and go to new places to do new things, life can be a river that sweeps you away. You are no longer in control, swimming across, but the current keeps you afloat (barely) and leads you down stream.

I find myself in such circumstances of late.

I am haunted by the guilt that my excess of social activity is wasting away time that can be spent on more productive activity. I am fortunate in the fact that, unlike many other lost souls, I know what more I can be doing with my life than wasting it away . I am no longer in control of my time it seems as I drown in an over-abundance of social obligations that I have willing took on.

In a recent dialogue I've shared with an intimate acquaintance, the value of solitude was at issue. I will be the first to argue the case for human as social animal. I will be the first to argue the value of social interaction with loved ones and strangers alike. I will be the first to argue ideas of self as a product of action in relation to others and not a single solitary state of being. Yet, solitude seems like a solution for my current circumstance.

Yes, solitude is a solution. I romanticize the role of the recluse. The enigmatic artist locked away in their room, as their brilliant work flow from their finger tips late into the night... But like all things, solitude is only truly beneficial in moderation, even for the artist.

To put my life and the current circumstances I find myself in in perspective, balance is key. I need to find solitude for myself in order to achieve my personal goals. Yet, such artistic goals I have set out for myself are dependent on being social in order to achieve a greater understanding of humanity and the world we live in; such achievements mean little unless I can share it with those whom I love dearly. In the jungle, no one is alone.

To be alone or not to be alone, that is not the question.

When and how to be alone, or when and how not to be alone is the question.

Once I've mastered that, my life will be considerably more satisfying. Once I've mastered that, this social butterfly will be king of the urban jungle.

A Weekend in the City

A card falls into the book I am reading on the subway. I look up to see who has dropped up only to watch a young man scurry off the train and up the stairs from the platform. "You're really attractive. I would like to take you for a coffee sometime - no expectations, just conversation" the card reads on the back side. The front shows the name Arthur and a phone number with an email address.
I eventually call him and we go for several dates. He is cute, but not my type, despite having studied English at univeristy and currently working in publishing. I tell him that he won't work out and we remain the most casual of friends.
Today I received an email from him titled "Boyfriend for a Week". Arthur is house sitting for a couple of lesbians at a posh house in the trendy Queen West neighbourhood near the very popular stylish Gladstone Hotel. I am invited to spend the week with him in a house we'd treat as a hotel of sorts. He casually alludes to his attraction to me (he calls me cute as hell!) and he mentions our one night of sexual intmatacy. He confesses to be more than interested in my conversation.
To have a holiday in your own city is an enticing domestic adventure. To escape the responsibilities and routine of your own home would be a welcome respite. Yet, the (in)decent proposal on the table comes with certain conditions, even if they are subtly implicit.
What to do...
What to do...

Meditations on Desire

At least I feel something. At least I know that I'm alive.

Desire is ultimately a painful emotion. Desire exists only when it is not satisfied. To desire is to want what you don't have. Once you have it, your desire is satisfied. Or, you still feel desire but only because you want it more. We do not desire what we have only what we think we want.

The worst desire of all is the desire for the unknown. Recognizing that you feel you need something that you currently lack, but being completely unaware of what that may be. Afterall, if you can only truly know what you want once you've got what you want. Desire is merely speculation: You think you have recognized what you is missing in your life: You think you have recognized that which will satisfy.

I desire love. I desire sex. I desire passion. I desire to be desired.
Yet, no one seems to satisfy these desires.

To desire is human. To want what is lacking is human. It is what keeps us alive.

Maybe...

Drunken Revelation?

Last night I got very inebriated. I did some things, I acted in a fashion, that I am doubting is something I should be proud of.

What is it, deep within my subconscious, that plagues me so that I act so inappropriately when drunk?

That may be an unfair assessment. There has been only one occurrence. I immediately attribute such behaviour to my parents stay in my apartment for ten days. Familial relationships can strain anyone young person, consciously or subconsciouly.

Nonetheless, along with losing my voice, my subconscious is making itself known. There is more to me than there is to me, it seems. But the question that haunts along with my subconscious is:
Can the source of such neurosis ever be known and understood?

Will there always be something deep in my soul that even I am aware of?

Paralysed By Freedom

My parents are gone. I have my life back. FREEDOM! I can now do all the things that have piled up during their stay. But what to do first? There seems to be so much I can do, I don't know where to start. My list of things to do is so daunting that I am overwhelmed. Yesterday I was caged by having to host and attend to my parents: Yesterday I was completely under the control of my parents and their needs. Today I am free and have all the time in the world to do what I need to do. Yet there is so much I could do, I am paralysed. I have no desire to waste my time in front of the T.V.. I want to get these things done. But I don't seem to have the motivation to actually get started. Cause once I get started, I don't know when I am going to feel like I have such freedom of time again.

What to do? What to do?

Well... So far, I've written this blog post.

Wisdom From Lucia #4

Me: Did you just open the door to the walk in fridge so you can look at my cute bum?
Lucia: I am not attracted to little boy like you, so you can go to hell! You're Crazy.

Fine Dining

A Friend from work came over to my apartment to prepare a meal in honour of my parents during their stay in Toronto. This is what he prepared:

Course #1
Salmon wrapped in Sole sprikled with Dill and Drizzled with a Chilli Oil
Served with A Cauliflower Curry Mousse

Course #2
Israeli Couscous with Salted Peas Served With a Red Wine Vinegar Reduction

Course #3
Walnut Crusted Tofu with Red Wine Candied Plums in a Wine Reduction

Course #4
Round Eye Steak Served with A Dijon Jus
Served with Wild Rice with Rosemary Flakes

So Good? No Good?
So GOOD!

Bedroom Prince's Lament

"These Psycho-somatic symptoms, basically insecure, due to some long frustration may react..."

I have lost my voice. I am angry, anxious, and agitated. My insecurities have made their way out.

There is no explicable cause for such lamenting. I love my parents. My parents love me. What is the problem? Am I merely dillusional? Is it not a question of who (my parents) but a question of what (the responsibility of hosting such important foreigners in my own apartment)?

Whatever the cause, my presence state is frustrating irrational and inexplicable!

I need a psycho-analysis.

Stressed By My Stressed

In an effort to "know thyself" following the wise words of Socrates, I eventually come to terms with the limit of what I can know about how and why I function. The subconcious, which arguably exists in every human being, is that which is always out of reach; that which can not be explained (at least through language). Only in particular circumstances does our subconscious make itself known consciously. It seems that these days, between school, work, teaching, hosting my parents, while balancing my social life, my subconscious processes are making themselves known. Yet, by revealing it's presence, my subconscious is evading explaining itself on conscious (linguistic) terms.

My voice is psycho-somatically absent. My mother contends that the presence of her and my father has caused stress in my life that is making itself known, subconsciously, through the loss of my voice. Similar to the case of Dora and her hysteria, I propose that, because of my parents presence in my life, I have in some way become censored. This metaphorical "loss of voice" is making itself known in my physiology through an actual loss of voice. The subconsciouis makes itself known through a "reading" of the biological behaviour of my body.

What is there to be done? My subconscious has made it self adequately known, but has not explained the meaning of it's presence. There must be some cause for my psycho-somatic symptoms. Is my self-diagnosis sufficient? Could these be the real cause, or merely the cause I wish upon myself for my loss of voice? Are there other factors at play?

Can the mysteries of the subconsicous ever be answered in any detail?

The stress of my stress makes me want to up and vomit.

The paradoxical product of the psyco-somatic symptoms of the subconsious is that they add to the problem, they increase the level of stress in one's life, rather than help diminish it.

It Doesn't All Fit

I love My Parents. Not merely in that Ihavetolovethembecausetheyaremyparent sorta way. I think they are interesting people and lead interesting lives. I am not sure that I can manage both my Toronto life and a life that includes hosting my parents for ten days in Toronto.

I miss my friends. I miss having sex.
I miss the social life I pushed aside and so I could spend time with my loving mother and father.
Is it possible that I have a capacity of love?
I can only love and be loved by a certain number of people?
If my parents are here, no room for my friends, and vice versa?

It is only four days in (out of Eleven). Friends, I know I made mention that I may be out of commission for the stay of my parents, but I was wrong. CALL. VISIT. TEXT. EMAIL.

I need you now more than ever.

(I think the question of Measuring love in any fashion (be it "amount" of love or the number of sources of love, is superficial and shallow.)

My Parents Have Arrived

They are here.

The day my parents arrive also happens to be the last day my dearest friend is in town. My dearest friend leaves on tour tomorrow for two and a half months. It was of the utmost importance that my parents met my dearest friend (and his boyfriend) as these two fine gentlemen are a very dear and important part of my life. So, off the three of us go, through the gay village of Toronto, to a very hip, stylish, and young shin dig.

Awkward. There my parents meet Scott. I barely recognize Scott, and Scott barely recognizes me. We drunkenly made out at a dance club about a month earlier. Scott gave me his number. I thought I saved his digits in my phone, but two days later, when I went to call him, I discovered, in my drunken reverie, I did not succeed in saving Scott's phone number into my cell. (I will get his number from My dearest friend later). Scott and I both become aware of our dirty secret. My parents are blissfully ignorant.

The party is hot. Many hot homos and fabulous femmes are in attendance. My parents are privy to my personal party life. They talk about their back packing trip in Europe with interested hot homos. They easily make conversation with the young, hip, and stylish fabulous femmes. Parents seem to be the New Black: They go with whatever you wear: You can take them to any party.

I am a fortunate son. I am neither ashamed of what my personal acquaintances will think about my parents, nor am I ashamed of what my parents will think of my social circle. Of course, there are details that no parent needs to be aware of, but everything else in my life is an open book for all to see (Hence this blog).

I am proud of who I am,
which includes being proud of my parents
as well as
being proud of the company I keep.

My Room Mate

Resolving Discrepancies

In one post, I boast about my most recent hot threesome. A post later, I am confessing my love for my long-distance long-term long-lost lover. Then I am back to dishing the deal on my latest late night lay.

Can such polygamy exist in a seemingly loving committed relationship?

Yes.

We seem to be able to share ourselves emotionally, intellectually, and even spiritually with our close friends.

So why do we treat sharing ourselves sexually any differently?

Carrie Bradshaw (infamously) accuses herself of being "emotionally" slutty as she tried to woo Berger. She opens herself up too much and too quickly. I believe that we can be emotionally slutty (like Carrie suggests), intellectually slutty, and even spiritually slutty. Sex isn't just the only thing that we can share with too many people too often.

I am not suggesting cutting ourselves off from our close friends on a emotional, intellectual, or spiritual level, but instead I suggest opening ourselves to the possibility of sexual relationships with friends. Even within a relationship.

Why is it acceptable to get emotional, intellectual, and spiritual support from outside of a relationship, but taboo to get any sexual satisfaction?

I think it is time to think outside of the Christian-Marriage Paradigm box and acknowledge that sex shouldn't be any different from all the other parts of a healthy lifestyle. I advocate safe-sex like I advocate a glass of orange juice a day - both keep you healthy and out of the hospital. If we re-consider how we treat sex, we can re-consider how we approach relationships.

If we consider sexual satisfaction amongst the emotional, intellectual, and spiritual support we are getting from outside a monogamous relationship, then no relationship should feel like it's a trap or a cage. A relationship becomes the most intimate of all our friendships: The most committed, the most solid, the most stable, but no means something to tie someone down.

Even if personally, you don't feel that such promiscuous sex is something you are interested in, inside of relationship or not, I would suggest breaking the down the preconceived barriers of the typical (Christian) relationship. If you follow this old and tired model for love and frienship, you lack vision and creativity. Think about what you want from the people whom you share your life with. Negotiate.

And Get What You Want!

I Win Some and I Win Some and/or British Sex Doesn't Deserve A Bad Rap

You can't have them all. Last weekend, I left some poor bloke behind at the club by going home with the couple of the aforementioned threesome. We were making eyes earlier that night and he was definitely sexy. I only found out later from my house guests that he was British and interested in meeting me. Even knowing that, I can never turn down a hot threesome, so I probably would have still gone home with the couple. Alas! You can't have them all.

Unless you go back a week later...

Luke. Luke moved here two years ago from South London to be with his boyfriend at the time (who later dumped him). He is a program director for a group of radio stations here in Toronto. He has a nice townhouse just outside the village. Luke is "Mr. English".

Luke sounds very English. He has the quintessential accent. Luke calls underwear "pants". Luke doesn't "have" breakfast with friends, he"shares" breakfast with friends. Luke wakes up and says he has "A Bloody Splitting Headache". Luke drinks tea. Luke is the gay guy from Coronation Street. Luke is a British Fantasy come true.

There is so much more to sex than just bodies. When I consider what I look for in a lover, I often resort to physical characteristics. Luke didn't meet any of my physical requirements for a fantasy, but he still was a fantasy come true nonetheless (He was still hot, just not my usual Tall, Dark, and Handsome). There is no use having a check list for the required stats of a lover. If you just open your eyes, not to a body, but to a person. Dreams do come true.

and who knew! British sex is not as bad as they make it out to be.

Celebrating My Love Alone

It is his birthday, but he is away. So I celebrate his birth on my own.

It is always a defiant act to dine alone. The wait staff always seems surprised: amused. I stand tall as I walk to my table alone. There are never any tables for a single person, all tables have at least two chairs. The chair opposite where I sit is not empty. I fill that chair with the idea of my lover. I am not alone. I am celebrating his birthday with my love for him.

This is a ceremonious act. It has meaning outside function. I could have found someone to dine with, but that would defeat the purpose. It is a ritual for my lover and I to dine together on our birthdays. Just the two of us. I will not give up the ritual because he is not present. I will not give up the ritual as long as I love him.

I love him. So I sit. I dine. I enjoy my meal. My thoughts are of him, with him.

Happy Birthday My Love.

We will share our meals together, our moments together, our lives together, even if you can't fill the second seat at a table in a fine restaurant.

Inside Man

I maintain that the only people who really know what happens in a relationship are the two people involved. That being said, the best way to get a glimpse of the most intimate moments in a relationship is to spend the night with the couple in question.

Last night I had a threesome and got to see the private lives of two lovers.

It is impossible to understand how the two people interact sexually with each other when you are invited into their home for a threesome: You are there to add some new and exciting aspect to their sex life. What is revealing about being invited over to a threesome is to listen how they talk to each other at the most intimate moment of all - the moment when they just wake up.

" Do I have to come"
" No. But I would really like you to. It is important to me."
" I am so tired."
" So don't come."
" No, no. I should come. Ok."
" You don't have, but I would really like it."
etc...

Even writing it here seems to reduce it to something less personal and reveavling. Yet, it gives you an idea of how they function - it is the little things that make a relationship unique. It is these types of conversations that are at the heart of how two lovers interact.

"It's the little things you do together, do together, do together, that make perfect relationships.
It's the hobbies you persue together, looks you miscontrue together, neighbours that you screw together, that keep marriage intact."

I feel privileged to be privy to such private parts of personal lives. These moments are not the ones that make up Valentines Day, but these are the moments that lovers share for the other three hundred and sixty four days of the year.

Progress

It has to get better before it gets worse.

There has to be a problem before there can be a solution.

You've got to look at the world around you before you know where you want to go.

Gone

I want to disappear and have everyone wonder where I went.

Low

I think that society treats feeling low as a problem that requires a solution. Feeling bad sometimes is just as natural and as healthy as feeling good. There are plenty things in our lives to feel great about and plenty things in our lives that may make us feel sad. We can feel good about the thing we have and we can feel bad about the things we lack or have lost. Moving between these things is just a part of living.

So let me live. Let me feel low. It's ok

"Everything will be okay in the end. If it's not okay, it's not the end." - unknown.

You Win Some, I Loose Some

I am a Loser.

I am Tired of Losing.

Nothing I put effort into seems to go my way.

Losing means not winning. It is not like my life is in anyway absolutely terrible or tragic. It merely means that I am never number one. It means that in our social world, no one chooses me first. But in our competitive world, being number two, (or three, or four,) is of little consequence. Being Anything but Number One Makes No One Great.

It is hard to negotiate self worth in a social and competitive world. I believe that I have so much to offer as an artist, as a human being, as a friend, as a lover, but all these things depend on a social context. I seem to consistently fail at being the number one in any of these situations. It is not enough to know that you have the capacity as a person and artist to be great, but you have to depend on others to see the same potential.

It never seems that the right people, or enough of the right people see and trust that potential in me.

I am a loser.

I am tired of losing.

But what else is there to do but put myself on the line again and again with the hopes of finally winning?

No One is a Perfect Chemist

They are always there to remind me. Especially at the bar on a Friday night. There was Mr. Frost: He never called me back because he had issues with being fourteen years older than I. There was Sergio: I never called him back because Sergio loved Sergio too much that there wasn't room for me to love Sergio. There was Mr. D----: Whom, was decent in bed, but far too self-centered. There was the boy with the curly hair: I made out with him last time I was here, but we never hooked up after that passionate night on the dance floor. There was Mr. H----: I had slept with Mr. H---- but there existed a silent agreement between us that we were friends now and never to be lovers. There was The Grad Student: Though very attractive (now more than ever), I did not treat him as well as he deserved and now he has found someone whom will fulfill he relationship needs and requirements.
I do not take these failures to connect personally. Despite how I believe everyone truly wants everyone to love them, such a goal is unreasonable in reality. There is a lot to be said for the ineffable quality of "Chemistry": You've got it with some people while with others, you might as well be talking to a wall. This still provides little consolation when I am looking to be in LOVE AGAIN .

At the end of the day though, I shouldn't forget that I had sex with two different hot guys yesterday. It's not like I am without...

T Minus Till Good Times

I primped. I'm wearing my tightest jeans and most flattering shirt combo (layering is still in!). I fought with my hair and won. I'm moussed and plucked and styled and shaved and ironed and moisturized.

I am good to go.

Now I wait till my company arrives.

What will ensue? Drinking. Dancing. General Mischief. Yelling. Kissing. Grinding. SINGING. Fucking (if I'm lucky - No. If you're lucky).

Bring on the good times baby, cause if you don't I'm gonna come round and kick your ass and take 'em. (I ain't no Holla back girl)

Till then...

I wait.

T minus till Good Times.

There is Always An "I" in Identity

Identity is the product of present action not labels as expressed through language.
A label both avows and disavows an identity. For example, The statement "I am a man" is synonymous with "I am not a woman". Such a claim excludes the possibility of the experience of the identity it disavows. These statements are ultimately limiting and therefore not useful.
Other expressions of identity through language are equally problematic. For example, the statement "I am Canadian" is a current point of controversy. "I am Canadian" does not seem to imply a clear and defined state of identity. (Pardon the Pun). For example, "I am Margot's Son": This statement is vague and ambiguous. Who is Margot? What does it mean to be her son? Any attempt to express identity through language is either reductive, limiting, vague or ambiguous rendering any such exercise useless.
Labels are unnecessary in attempting to express identity. An individual's identity is ultimately far too diverse and fragmented to be able to be contained efficiently in language.
The inability to express identity through language does not mean there is no possible outlet for identity expression. Identity is inevitable. Idenity is a necessary product of existence. If one exists, one has an identity. How then can we use this premise in order to get a perspective on identity? If we also concede that action (human activity) is a necessary part of existence as well (if you exist you breathe, live, see, hear, think, etc...) there is a connection between identity and action through existence.

I suggest that identity is created and defined through action. Concern should not be paid to defining (or capturing) identity through labels or language, but should be paid to an analysis of action. Through examining what an individuals does, how they do it, and why they do it, an expression of identity that is neither reductive or limiting begins to form.

I believe it is part of the human condition to try to understand and control reality by containing it in language. These efforts are insufficient and inadequate when considering the problem of identity expression. We would be better off if we stopped attempting to "find" or "define" ourselves and start examining what we do and why and how we do it.

(I admit this is rather academic, but such style helped me negotiate my way through these thoughts.)

"How Do I Hate Thee"?

I teach at several elementary schools. This poem was posted, among others that are similar, on the hall wall at one the schools I teach at. I thought it was noteworthy.

How do I hate thee? Let me count the ways

I hate you so much when I wake up I feel

Like hanging myself in the washroom

I'd rather jump off the C.N. Tower and break every bone

in my body than look at you

I hate you so much that I would like to a hire a hit man to kill me

because I would rather be dead than look at your donkey face

you dumb retard. I hate you so much when I look at you

I see a personal hell for you. I'm in my own

personal hell when I am in your presence. I loathe you so much

I hope you burn to ashes in a bottomless pit you mentally

challenged idiot.

By Jamal Mohammed

(Other noteworthy poems included images of kicking someone's head like a socceer ball and envying deaf and blind people because they avoid hearing or looking at the poem's audience)

Porno from the Past

I recently have aquired the pornography collection of a dead man. Rather incidently, a co-worker said a friend she knew who worked at a video store recently was bequeathed a collection of porno donated by the friends and family of a recently deceased neighbour. I, who will never pass up free porn, went to the aforementioned video store to take some advantage of some of this free erotic gold.

I feel that, by watching the dead man's pornography, I am getting a glimpse into a secret and private part of a man and his life. From such titles as "Slave Training" and "Time for Torment" and "Extreme Measures", the man's personal sexuality slowly reveals itself. It may not get me off, but the fact that I am able to see a part of a human being that no longer exists in our world, I feel I am able to look not only through time to the past, but beyond the grave to achieve an understanding of someone I had never known or met. They definitely didn't talk about his love for "Slave Training" in his eulogy at his funeral.

alieNATION

Canada has long been searching for an identity: a unifying structure that encompasses it's vast geography. The diversity that seems to be the defining feature of Canada makes it difficult to establish any definite identity. If , in examination, we treat a nation the same as an individual , I argue there are many benefits to lacking a defined specific sense of identity.

As is often done when attempting to define a Canadian identity, I will revert to drawing attention to our Southern neighbour, the United States.

The United States has a clear and strong idenity: The Land of the Brave and Home of the Free. Yet, it seems that the U.S. is not popular on the international front. In their attempt (and success) to clearly establish a sense of "who they are", the United States has succeed in alienating the rest of the world. The U.S. is not aware of how the world relates to them or how they relate to the world.

Canada, on the other hand, seems to be viewed positively throughout the world. Many Canadian travellers will attest to how they are treated more than fairly when abroad. Between a large immigrant population, a multi-cultural policy mandate, and strong ties to peace keeping and diplomacy, Canada is viewed as a positive force throughout the world. (Note how any claims to an identity have a connection to the international stage, and not a specifically Canadian context.) Yet, we do not seem to be able to claim a unique identity on our home front.

I argue that it is a lack of identity, and an acceptance of plurality that allows the Canadian experience, either at home or abroad, to be positive, effectual, and rich. For example, the Canadian traveller whom is more likely to be welcomed abroad will have a richer experience in a different cultural setting than the American. By defying any singular unifying structure to base a unique identity upon, the Canadian experience, as one of multi-cultural diversity, is open to so much that exists in the world. By welcoming and celebrating the diversity of the world, Canada accepts the continually changing face of the nation and accepts change and growth. It seems that the cost of being able to access the diversity of the world, is upholding diversity in our own country, which makes it impossible to establish a clearly defined and unique Canadian identity.

If the individual gave up the modern quest to define and articulate a clear unique idea of self, the individual would then be open to more of what the world has to offer. If the individual, like Canada, welcomes and celebrates the diversity of the world, they would be able to live a positive, effectual, and rich existence. Both an individuals idea of self as well the any sense of a Canadian identiy should accept its plurality and temporal progression.

*(This is a rather meaty posts. I thought I would share it with you as a follow up to my previous post "Alienating Individuality". Once again, I admit that this is a project that continually remains in progress.)

I Wish I Were In Love Again

"It's not you. It's me."

These words, as lame as they are, often end relationships. In these situations, I think that who ever uses these words is figuring this out much too late. Relationships do not end because "It's not you. It's me", relationships to begin with are selfish endeavours.

I want to be in love again. Not because of "you", but because of "me". I want to feel the highs and the lows. I want to be filled with the glow of knowing someone out there wants me so bad. I want to feel wanted. I desire to feel desired. I want the pleasure of having sex consistently. I want to feel something that only being in love makes me feel.

Whoever my "Lover" may be, I want you to know that "It's not you. It's me." I am not doing this for you. I'm doing it for me. Of course you have to love me, but I am not concerned with how you feel beyond that, I just want you to provide the reason for me to feel the way I feel when I'm in love. Just don't be confused and think that who you are is of primary importance. It isn't. What is the most important thing in the relationship is me and how I feel. The end is what matters, not the means.

"The sleepless nights,the daily fights

the qick toboggan when you reach the heights

I miss the kisses and I miss the bites

I wish I were in love again!

The broken dates,the endless waits,

the lovely loving and the hateful hates,

the conversations with the flying plates

I wish I were in love again!

No more pain No more strain

Now I'm sane but ...

I would rather be gaga!

The pulled-out fur of cat and cur

the fine mismating of a him and her

I've learned my lesson,

but I wish I were in love again!"

(The attitude I espouse in this blog may be the reason why I am not in a relationship and may be the reason why all the previous love affairs I have had haven't lasted. I won't deny that at this point it I believe these thoughts to be true. Maybe I will learn otherwise, or may be relationships have always been built upon the mantra "It's not you. It's me.")

Alienating Individuality

In our (Post) modern world, individuality and independence are highly prized. These goals are ultimately alienating. In out efforts to be an individual, we separate ourselves from those around us. If we are too close (emotionally or otherwise) to other people, we begin to loose our independence and with that we begin to loose that concept of authentic self. I believe that in an attempt to be a unique and distinct human being, we try to avoid being affected by those around us. We try to control how we grow and who we become. This autonomy comes at a cost: we loose the ability to understand humanity which ultimately affects our personal relationships. I believe that it is the greatest thing to be able to put yourself out there, connect with another human being, relinquish any idea of control you have on how you grow, and let the world and humanity reveal itself to you.
*Note: These thoughts are preliminary. There is much matter to them, that I hope to continue to work out...

Sore and Satisfied

My legs are sore from having sex last night.

The corporeal remnants of my personal past...
Good memories remain in my mind and body.

All Things Go

The past year has been one of departures. Specifically, the important men in my life have been leaving me. The first was my boyfriend, whom, now in retrospect (such perception!), I am glad has gone and am eager to close that chapter of my life. The second was my ex-boyfriend, whom, despite how it would be in my best interest to let go of, will probably be a chapter in my life that never closes. The third is my good friend, whom, is someone who has a very positive influence on my life, and I am hoping that our chapter will never close. Those people absent or missing, those figures that are left behind, are arguably the most influential forces in psychoanalysis. Even if they are not present, they continue to affect me. Despite how I feel about these departing men, they have had definite influence on my life. And soon another man in my life will be leaving: Me! This summer, my own departure from my established life will, like any other experience, impact who I am and how I look at the world. All things go... All things go...

Undergraduate Condition

" I did surprisingly well. The T.A. even asked for a copy of my paper. The thing is, I made it all up. I did it the night before."
I did surprisingly worse than I expected. I spent the majority of the weekend working on the paper. I did not make any of it up.
This is the Undergraduate Condition.
It takes a while to learn the tricks of the academic trade.
Much can be learned from a musical about Twelve Year Old kids in a Spelling Bee:
"Life is Random and Unfair. Life is Pandemonium. That's the reason we despair. Life is Pandemonium - It is such a Calamity. Where should we begin? The best spellers don't necessarily win."

A Faggot's Frustration

When straight girls hold hands with cute stylish geeky college boys in romantic restaurants.

Wisdom From Lucia #2

"Young People want too much. They expect too much. If they could just be satisfied with what's already there, they would be happy."

I Am Here

It is a Tuesday Night. I have been invited to hear my friend play around the corner from my apartment at some "art house cafe". I live less than a block away, yet I haven't been to this locale. I didn't even know it existed. I am told to arrive at nine, when my friend tells me he will be playing. I walk in at ten to. (I am in the Rothko hanging on the walls near the stage near the upright piano.) My friend is at the back. Either they are running behind or my friend was mistaken. Nonetheless, I am here so I might as well listen. The musician is playing a tune written for saxophonist and C.D. The saxophonist blurts out melodies over the manipulated sounds of swearing inmates on death row (I am in these organized noises). It is unusual, impressive, and a completely new and unexpected experience. It is my friends turn to play with his band. I have heard these tunes before. I am almost his groupie. (I am in his Melancholy Song of Dear Departing Friends). This Tuesday evening is unique, but not special because it was unexpected and foreign. I never seem to be able to predict what a day in my life will entail.

I Heart My Toronto Life. I Find Myself Everyday Without Even Looking.

I Am Here.

Wisdom From Lucia #1

"You loose something everyday. Time, money, skin, thoughts, moments, phone calls, opportunities. I could go on. So why are you so upset?"

I Am There

I found myself in New York City.

At the Eugene O'Neil Theatre. At the Mercy of a Murderous Barber. In Strawberry Fields. With the woman playing the saw in the Subway. In Persistence of Memory. In an Angel in America. Entertaining Mr. Sloane. With Jessye Normas, the Drag Queen Opera Diva, at XL. With Geoff and John. At the Circle Square. In a Roy Lichenstein. In a mosaic inscribed with "Imagine". With Twelve Year Old Spelling Champs (and Losers). With Picasso. In LOVE. At the Roundabout on a Sunday afternoon. On Ellis Island. In my dreams...

I found myself in New York City.

An Experience

Ex Boyfriends, Subways, The United Nations, Tall Buildings, Green Money, Twelve Year Old Spelling Champs, Gay Bars, Albertan Cowboys, Swanky Hotels, Old Friends, Good Friends, Lotteries, Murderous Barbers, Opaline, Modern Art, Big Parks, the Gateway to America, Villages, Phantoms, Yellow Cabs, Piano Professors, Hot Gay Scotts, Finding Myself (HA!), Losing Myself, Faux Arches, Fun. Fun. Fun. Twelve Hours Away...

THE NEW YORK EXPERIENCE.

Who We Are (Is Where We Go?)

Everyone seems to go to Europe or Austrailia to "Find themselves". I find this false and futile. To assume that there is a pre-destined self that needs to be found, and only can be found by traversing a specific journey to a certain geographic place is foolish. The self is not "pre-destined" but is made up of the myriad of experiences we accumulate. It is foolish to assume we can put value on these experiences. A trip to Europe may ultimately less influential than not going anywhere at all. There is an inevitability to any experience being a formative force in our lives. And the actual "self" we are is constant and ever shifting. We are always ourselves, so how is it possible then to find the self that we already are. That self changes as we accumulate experience. I often think that the efforts to "find oneself" abroad is an attempt to take control of formative experience. It is choosing the experiences we desire to make up our identity. That being said, I have lost myself in N.Y.C. I'm off to find me!

Lost In New York

Start spreading the news, I'm leaving ON Wednesday on a bus on the Hudson River Line to New York New York (It's a Hell of a Town) TO FIND MYSELF.

My Romance

It's a date. It's Saturday night. I am single and looking for love. Going on a date only seems natural.

There is not go for dinner, but there is a movie. I buy popcorn, a hot dog, and a large pop. I get a coupon for two-for-one admission next time I come to this theatre. Is this an omen for things to come? I cross my fingers even though I know this means that no one can hold my hand.

The movie is appropriately "gay". It follows a transexuals women as she comes to terms with her past by accepting and loving her estranged son. I sit next to three middle age women. I offer them some of my popcorn. I have far too much.

The movie starts. I laugh. I cry. I am too enraptured in the film to pay attention to anyone else. This is the point of going to the movies.

The movie ends. I want to weep. I am afraid of being seen crying.

I hold the rest of the bag popcorn under my arm, throw my hot dog wrapper into my empty pop cup, and exit the theatre.

The night is romantic.

Despite how I am alone.

I have no lover. My Saturday nights are spent going on a date to the movies with myself.

If no one will love me, if no one will want to be with me, I will love being by myself.

But that never stopped me for wanting this strange women next to me to hold my hand as I cried.

Missing the Missing Comment

*See the Comments

Blog As Analyst

*If you have little interest in Freud and Psycho-analysis, read no further.

The process of Psycho-analysis as introduced to the world by Freud has been nick named the "Talking Cure". I propose that this method of curing and/or dealing with neurotic symptoms and conditions can be done through Blogging, as a sort of "Writing Cure".

The Analyst in the Blogging circumstance is the reader. Unlike a jouranl, which often has the intention of remaining secreat and unread, the Blog is public, but anonymous. Like the analyst, the reader on an anonymous blog has no biased or direct connection with the material.

The Blog merely provides a structure for the purposes of communication. The patient/blogger is able to talk freely and openly without fear of reprecussion, as the analyst is outside of the life of the patient. The Blogger is able to rant and rave without implicating any "actual" person, only the "virtual" reader.

The Blog also provides an outlet for the patient to superimpose themselves into the world. Once they have transplanted their issues through narrative into the world, they are able to reread and perceive themselves from a metaphorical distance. Through text and narrative, the patient/blogger is able interpret and analyse with the ease and freedom they would obtain with any other subject outside of themselves.

Of course, such an assertion would take more examination, but, as I finish this post, I have dealt with and come to understand my neurotic need to Blog.

Apparently the "Writing Cure" works!

How I Want You to Want Me

I want you to want my body. And not just my body, but I want you to want boys with similar bodies to mine: slim, smooth, waifish, white, small. I want you to desire celebrities because their bodies exhibit these characteristics. I just want you to want my body more than you want anyone elses.

I want you to want to know what I think, how I think, and why I think it. The mysteries of my mental processes should fuel your desire for me over other boys with similar bodies: They may strike your sexual desire because of their slim, smooth, waifish, white, small bodies, but my mind is a mystery that is more enticing than the conquering these mere bodies. And my mind is held within the body, my body, you desire over all others.

I want you to want my laughter. I want you to want my pain. I want you to find pleasure and happiness in my pleasure and happiness. I want you to find sadness and sorrow in my sadness in sorrow. I want our emotional beings to be so connected, so entwined, so entangled that, like siamese twins, separation would result in death for each of us.

I want you to want me. I want you to want everypart of the gestalt that makes up my being. All the ineffable things in between, that exist beyond understanding and language, all the things you see in me but can't describe. I want you to want me in my entirety.

I want you want me to be someone who will want you.

If you want that then I will want you.

I want to want.

I want to be wanted.

Traces of Yesterday

I indulge in the smell of my finger tips. Lead from a pencil, coffee, buttons from elevators, onions, my own crotch, keyboards, cinnamon... The traces of everything I have come in contact with throughout the day remains. I carry the existence of my experience with me. Small particules of where I have been and what I have touched cling to my physical being, my body. Only to be washed down the drain in the shower the next morning. Not a trace left... We never remember such little details.

Audience

I Know You Are Reading This.

The Replacements

I have been replaced.

My ex has found a new love, a new fuck, a new boyfriend, a new romantic interest. Whatever you want to call it, he has found my replacement.

I often mentioned that when he left to Korea, as we would inevitably grow apart, he allowed for the possiblity of replacing me. He, in his pseudo-philosophical non-commital ambiguous way claimed he could never replace me, he would merely find someone different to explore existence with.

What is behind this polarity?

Do we merely replace those that we love but loose, or, as my ex supposes, do we keep our lovers in our hearts forever despite nurturing new relationships?

Maybe all of our relationships are merely Freudian sublimations of our desire for our Mothers. As we grow older and sexually mature, our friendships and romantic entanglements are simply an effort to divide our intense love for our mothers to socially acceptable objects. Once we loose one object that was an outlet for, in this case, romantic and sexual intimacy and love, we replace it with another person. If this is the case, the object of our love and desire is not consequential. Our objects of love and desire fit certain characteristics that make them suitable as an outlet to sublimate our intense feelings toward our Mothers. Their personalities and identities are secondary to their fundamental purpose. In a Freudian context, I think all relationships are merely replacements for the relationship we desire for with our Mothers. My ex, the Freud expert that he is, should probably agree.

I have been replaced, but then again, I was merely a replacement to begin with.

This doesn't make me feel any better.

It does explain why he found it unnecessary to continue communicating with me though. If that isn't a sign of how I have been replaced, I don't know what is.

The Truth About The Truth

The truth is knowable despite its ever changing face. We are feeling, thinking creatures. If we strip away pride, fear, and our insecurities, difficult as that may be, the truth is there, in our hearts and minds.

Missing the Missing Posts

If you read my Blog between 3pm and 5pm Eastern Standard Time this February 11th, you would have been privy to a Post that no longer exists. For reasons that will remain mysterious, that Post was deleted. The Post only exists in the minds and memories of myself and those fortunate enough to have been reading my Blog at the right time. So, those of you whom did not have the happenstantial privilege of reading that Post, it will remain unknown.
Nothing is more enticing than the unknown. Everyone loves a mystery. This Post is not a singular occurrence: It is only unique because I got to the point of writing it, posting it, only then to delete it.

There is so much that is missing.
There is so much that will never be said.

I want to share everything with everyone.
I want everyone to share everything with me.

This is not possible.
But it doesn't keep me from trying...

The True Nature of Love

The only way I could ever want you to be happy is to be happy with me because I could be so happy with you.

An Offer

I have been offered to join a couple. Not just for sex. But to be a part of their relationship.

Three way Fucking. Three Way Loving. Three Way Relationship.

Is this possible?

Why is this necessary?

Why would this couple desire to persue this?

Why would I want to join them?

If everything goes according to plan, I will be on a date on Friday with TWO MEN AT THE SAME TIME.
Maybe then I will be able to answer one or all of these questions...

Show Someone You Care

Our world is too convenient. Between Cell Phones, Email, and Online chatting we can connect to each other with such immediacy. I concurr that this convenience at times can make life easier, but, at the same time, we are taking our relationships for granted.
Would we chat to our dear friends from our hometown if it wasn't for MSN? Or would we just forget about them because we don't have the time to write a letter? If it were not for cell phones, would we just give up trying to get a hold of an old colleague or high school buddy?
Because all these convenient methods of communication are right at our finger tips, an effort to go beyond what is immediately available shows signs of caring. I am guilty of having relationships with people, that, over time have become indifferent, but I maintain them simply because of their convenience. Taking the time to actually call someone from the quiet of your own home instead of on the way somewhere on a busy street on your cell phone when it is difficult to concentrate, or writing a well thought out email instead of gabbing on MSN shows that you are willing to go beyond what is easy, and take the time and effort to go out of your way for someone whom you care about.
It is always best to actually spend the time with someone together, not merely talking using cell phones or MSN. But when that is not an available option, effort is always a welcome sign to let you know that you care.
Take your time, you thoughts, your effort to go out of your way to show someone you care. Don't take them for granted!

An Email: An Effort

To: ciao_anthony@hotmail.com
Subject: An Effort

This takes effort. It does not come conveniently. I could wait patiently until you happened to be online the same time I was, but that's safe. Or it could come to pass by mere happenstance. It could be coincidence that we just happened to log in around the same time. No. It would not be an active act, but one born of passivity. It would not take effort. It would be too convenient. I would rather take the time, and thought, and effort, and put myself on the line, possibly making myself seem too eager or anxious, by writing you an email.
Unprompted. Unasked for. Unexpected.
Romance isn't dead. Romance merely requires effort. Romance requires breaking free of the convenience of our modern methods of communication, of thinking, of living. If I had your address I would write you a letter. Email is the best I've got.
I had thought about calling, but it is late and I wouldn't want to wake you.
But I needed to say something to you. To let you know that you have sparked more than my interest. But the desire to take the time, and thought, and effort to let you know that I have thought about you today. More than once.
If I manage to spark even merely your interest, you can call me anytime.

Yours truly,
Stephen

Buddies, but not with Beyonce Knowles (a.k.a. Drunk Post #3)

I was invited to a party that Ms. Beyonces Knowles would be attended this evening.

I DECLINED.

I had already made plans with a Fabulous, Stylish, Beautiful Pair of Lovely Ladies. I could not refuse them. I could not object to a guaranteed stellar time with two beautiful intelligent women at a consistently amusing night club.

We went. We danced. We were fabulous.

They left early because one of the pair needed to work early the following morning.

After the pair of lovely ladies were left, I continued to flirt. By the end of the night I had fooled around with five possible lovers, and acted upon the advances of two of these potential lovers.

Making Out is satisfying only itself only on the dance floor. If it were in any other local, I would want to pursue things right to the (my) end.

The night is coming to a close. It is time to rest my eyes. I can do so with a smile and dream of the romantic consequences of an ideal evening.

Critical of Criticism

I am a critical person. I think it is important to be critical. It nurtures thought and the intellect. I think many people think that criticism is negative.
As an artist, I am especially critical of work in my discipline. Often, I happen to be very critical of works of colleagues and friends. . I feel that if they heard how I talk about their work and what I say about their work that they would be offended. I am sorry for them because I do not mean to offend. My aim in being critical of the art and theatre I see, is to continually clarify my own creative voice. How do I see art? What do I think art should do? In what ways would I execute a project? I am not critical to "put down" other artistic endeavours and other artists. Art in itself is valuable. My criticism will not change that. My criticism is to articulate and understand my reactions and understandings of the art I am exposed to.
Please understand this. I hope you are as critical of my work as I am of yours. I hope that my work influences and clarifies your artistic voice as much as yours has done for me.
I thank you for the opportunity for criticism.
I am also very critical of myself.
For example: This was a badly written, badly structures, badly executed blog post.

Taking a Stand on Being Stood Up

I am angry.

There is no reason for this.

I am a good person.
I am a talented person.
I'm an attractive person.
GRANT ME GRACE!

There is no one I want to call. I don't want to sound pathetic to anyone I could call. Those who whine about their pathetic circumstances are wasting their time and the time of whoever they are whining to.

STOP READING NOW!

If you think that you would listen to a friend in such a position, you are only listening to their pathetic story so you can feel better about yourself.

You didn't get stood up!

This is a problem.

What is the solution?

Any possible remedy seems bitter and jaded.

Conclusion: SUCK IT UP!

Dreams and Postmodernism

It is 5 am. I can't sleep. I am as wide awake as the Pacific Ocean.

I had a dream that I lived in an ecclectic house filled with large over-sized house plants. Something was being stolen. A crime was being committed. I was never sure if I was the thief or the victim. Maybe both?
Ah the enigmatic world of dreams....

Time for the postmodern activity of blogging about blogging: My blog at first was an outlet for my creative non-fiction-esque (it is odd to have two hyphens in a word) writing. Now it serves as a journal of sorts. I was never able to journal before. Why would I write for my own reading pleasure? What is the purpose of writing without an audience? I think blogging functions on the perfect journal because there IS an audience but they are anonymous. This was an effort to justify this middle of the night post.

I think my title for this post is better than the actually post itself.
DAMN!

Of Pride and Prejudice

Pride and Prejudice is a love story.

Love only happens at the end of Pride and Prejudice.

Pride: 1) a deep pleasure or satisfaction gained from ones achievements, qualities possesions 2) an excessively high opinion of oneself.

Prejudice: 1) an opinion about someone or something that is not based on reason or experience

Love Only Happens When Pride and Prejudice Is Finished.

Drunk Post #2

I am smoking a cigarette.

On a night like this, it is appropriate.

(OH! Pride and Prejudice... I think it is a lost cause...)

I've obtained a number and an email address. I think this night has been a success.

He had curly hair, looked Mediterranean, was at least 5'11'' and was definitely cute.

I HEART my Toronto Life.
(Why don't blogs have those cheesy emoticons - I think I have answered my own question)

Geoff and John (my dearest lovers who are lovers) are time more than well spent.

I need a glass of wine. (I feel like Lisa Batson - She is fabulous)

God Bless The Last Supper: I have my glass of wine!

Mr. Alex Gates (the American): Call ME!

I don't know how much longer I can wait!

Pride is a lost cause. Prejudice is just a part of life (or at least when you've obtained the digits of somone who is a virtual (actual?) stranger.)

Someone is home!
The party continues!

Photo Exhibition #1: The Threat, The Jazzie, and The Hottie

The Biggest Loser is the Biggest Winner

I don't usually watch T.V. Especially with the new (O.K.! So it's not that new) reality T.V. fad that has emerged over the last couple years. Most of theses shows, following the lead from the hit "Survivor", show human beings manipulating, degrading, and insulting each other (and often themselves) for some superficial prize. They expose their deepest and darkest selves for our viewing pleasure. Not only do I think this immoral and a representation of exactly what is wrong in North American culture, but often I think it makes transparent thoughtless entertainment.
Tonight I watched the end of THE BIGGEST LOSER. A show that pits two families against each other in a race to loose the most weight.
THE BIGGEST LOSER IS THE BIGGEST WINNER!
In this reality T.V. program, the goal is a positive one that shares a positive message with it's viewing audience: Losing weight and living a healthy lifestyle will make you feel better about being you. Yes there is a $50,000 prize, but as many of the contestant repeatedly tell us, it is not about the money, but about an experience that will change their lives (lifestyles) for the better. Through the course of the show, they learn how to exercise and eat well, learn how to support their family members, and learn the benefits of a healthy lifestyle. Through the construction and editting of the show (which is an inevitable flaw of reality television), we are not left with shells of manipulative and malicious contestants, but are shown a family that, through the pressure and hard work of losing weight, grow into healthier better lives.
Thus far, this seems to be the only redeeming reality television program I have seen.

Wednesday Night?

It is not an uncommon occurence, but it still deserves some merit.

My apartment has accumulated over the past hour, twenty young men and women interested in boozin' it up. A random spontaneous party is taking place beneath my feet right now. I Heart My Apartment!

(I just wish I wasn't so sick I could enjoy it)

Being Sick...

Being sick is only good if:
1) You can skip work because you get sick pay
2) You have someone who you don't mind having around when you look your worst to come and treat you like the ill little princess you are!
3) You are in highschool and you want to watch the soaps!
4) You are Ferris Bueller (and you're actually faking it)
5) You have something more interesting to write in your Blog about.

I don't have much to write about, I am not Ferris Bueller (or faking it), I am not in highschool, I am not comfortable enough with any of my intimate friends for them to see me like this, and I don't get sick pay.

Being sick sucks!

17 Words For Love, But It's All Greek to Me

"I don't think anyone HAS to say anything. And what does it mean anyways? I say it to my mom. I say it to my cat. How can it mean the same thing when I say it to you? The Greeks have it right, they have seventeen different words for love." he tells his girlfriend after she demanded that he reciprocate her emotional articulations.

------------------------------------------------------

Why is it that those three words seem to mean so much?

Are the acts of love more meaningful than the words of love?

Why do we need "I Love You" when we know it to be true when our lover gives us the last piece of the Chocolate Bar, or offers a massage when we are sore, or sends a postcard, or goes down on us without asking for reciprocation?

Do not actions speak louder than words?
(Or is "I Love You" the anomaly?)

Maybe the Greeks have it right?

What are those seventeen words anyway?

(It sure beats the Inuit. They have something like 70 words for snow!)

Correcting My Stream of Conciousness ?

Should one re-read their blog posts?
Discuss.

Moving on... (I Wish!)

After re-reading my last post, I feel I should clarify. I don't just irk my ex in order to get a reaction out of him. My intention is to only communicate my honest thoughts and feelings. I am aware though, that by doing so, I irk him. (I like the word irk - what a great combo of three letters!) I do not maliciously aim to annoy or frustrate or irk (There it is again!)

Moving on... (I WISH!)

Can one correct their stream of conciousness? It would be intuitive to say "no". One's concious thought in the moment exists in that moment and it is pure and untainted. I think one can aim to correct the linguistic expression of that thought though. But then again, there is more to a thought then just that thought. After analysis we often are able to understand our thoughts more clearly. But then again, that wouldn't exactly fit under the exercise of "stream of conciousness". But then again, can a thought exist outside of the realm of language. Would it then be relegated to the position of "emotion"? But then again, I think this discussion has gone on too long.

Stream of Conciousness

I am procrastinating.
(Why does boredom always accompany procrastination?)

Maybe I should sleep. It is One AM!

I'm not tired.

Pride and Prejudice is feeling abandoned laying on my bed.
"You will be read in due time. You MUST be read. Just please not now!"
Oh, this emotional conflict energizes me. I figure that's bad news. I continue to feel betrayed and dismissed by my ex. I express my frustration to him most everytime we communicate. By continually bringing up this contentious point, I am able to provoke some reaction out of him. He still wants to talk to me, despite how I irk him consistently, so he must still care. Maybe if he would just shower me with his love through emails, phone calls, postcards, and sweet nothings, I would feel the need to provoke these less than positive reactions out of him. He claims he loves me, but a lover does not leave his loved one. Does he?

NOW I REMEMBER WHY I WATCHED ALL THOSE OLD MOVIES LAST WEEK!
(If only Queen Video was still open...)

There are things to be done. Homework. Cleaning. Homework.
I need to edit my play. I think I fear it. I think it has the potential to be a really great piece of theatre, but I fear I do not have the capacity as a writer to reach this potential. I should try, and if I fail, just not tell anyone. That isn't my style though. I'm not that guy (I love saying that). I make art to communicate. I make art to share. I make art to bring me closer to this world. FUCK! I need to edit that play.

I like to make lists. It helps me feel good about getting things done.
Oh! The Satisfaction of Crossing Out an Item on My TO DO LIST.
OH! THE SATISFACTION OF A COMPLETELY CROSSED OUT TO DO LIST! I have made my list of things to do (complete with a schedule in which I have give time to do these things) already. That is usually my prime source of procrastination. NOW WHAT?

Love is born of idleness.

My love is in Korea.

WHY WON'T MY LOVE DIE?

I would murder nothing but my love. Then make the time to be idle in order that my love would be born anew from a different divine conception of a man.
I indulge him too much.
Pride and Prejudice is more important. At least Pride and Prejudice is here with me lying in my bed.
I would rather not spend my time with you at this moment, but something is better than nothing. And the sooner I finish you, the sooner I cross you off my TO DO List!

A Beautiful Invasion

It is ten a.m Saturday morning. The apartment is serene and the hall is filled with sunlight from the skylight in the ceiling. I quietly open my room mates door to throw some laundry into her room. I suspect she is sleeping so I am careful not to disturb her. I open the door and look down upon her futon.
There is a boy in her bed.
His shaggy brown hair has fallen into his face. He is unshaved and rugged, despite his small olive-skinned frame. I can tell immediately he is Italian or Mediterranean. He opens his eyes slowly to look to see who has entered. He takes me in for a moment (Oh, I wish he would take me in!) before closing his eyes to return to sleep. He is beautiful.
I close her door. Stunned.
Who is this boy? Why is he here? Did they have sex?
Hours later, Monica is awake. To my relief she tells me they didn't have sex. Francesco (that's his very Italian name) is "like her little brother". He's gay. The good news makes me smile.
He is here again today. He slept over last night. For two days in a row, I have stood above Monica's bed as he lay there, in nothing but a pair of plaid pajama pants. His patch of curly hair on his chest is beyond sexy. I pretend to make conversation with my room mate, trying to sound fun and attractive, but I am preoccupied with the stranger in lying there in bed. (Why isn't this stranger is my bed?)
He has invaded where I live.
He is unattached. He has no loyalties to any lover. He is up for grabs. My apartment is often occupied by strange men, but these men are either straight or usually claimed by one of my room mates.
Francesco is an invading army of desire. (Invade me!)
There is no escape. There is no refuge.
I aim to attract his attention. To subtley make my intentions known without being too offensive. I preen. I pose. I want him to want me. I can not hide. I must seduce at every moment. My own home has been take over by perpetual desire.
I invite him in, but will he come in close enough?
As I write this, he is downstairs watching television.
I am always willing to accomodate the armies of desire.
Conquer me!

Buddies Is Good Times

"Since You've Been Gone" or "Hollaback Girl" or anything by Madonna or Britney is heard. The crowd screams. Their arms are thrown in the air and, if the music wasn't so loud, you would be able to hear all the voices in a drunken unison singing all the words as loud as they can. In this case, at this moment, the DJ is blasting "Since You've Been Gone", a Kelly Clarkson classic. Andrew and I hold our palms parallel to the floor and monitor the bouncing crowd, moving our hands up and down when the mob jumps. It seems, in this drunken Dionysian euphoric state, the world is dancing and singing in unison.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times Experience.
Andrew and I, in a mockingly sarcastic tone, make up dances, reminiscent of a pop culture sign language, to the shallow and vapid lyrics of the top forty tunes. It is ridiculous and makes us laugh. The music is basic, and so are our dance moves. Anything extrenuous is irrelevant.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times Experience.
Anthony Collins is making conversation with me. I think he may be hitting on me. It is cordial, clever, and entertaining. I am flattered. I can not sleep with him because he had dated, broken up with, and is currently not talking to the American I am having intimate relations with. It is ultimately harmless. He will not be upset when I go home without him. Even the drama is worthwhile and frivolous.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times Experience.
The Top Five Moments of the Night: (decided between Andrew and I)
1) The man's breath who smelt like a racoon who had died upon a pile of hot hot hot garbage comprised of rotten milk from a dead woman's breast.
2) "Your hair is like Michael Hutchens from INXS. And Richard Simmons." (This tranlates to "You are so hot. AND not hot!")
3) We performed "Since You've Been Gone" as if a dramatic monologue. As we spoke the lyrics we mimed dowsing our exes apartment in gasoline before lighting it afire. The music highlighted the gasoline being poured from a can, the wee little explosions that occurred after we dropped the lighter, and the exit from the burning apartment building.
4) I can't remember what #4 is.
5) "What's with this good music?" As we check our coats, I am annoyed that they are playing good music while I do not have the opportunity to dance. The coat check women interprets it as if I am surprised they are playing good music at all.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times experience.
Frivolous. Long Lines. Guest Lists. Vapid. Peter Knegt. Witty. Physical. Hot. Ridiculous. Pop Culture. Andrew Kushnir. Good Times.
This is the Buddies in Bad Times experience.

The Boat

The Boat is a "venue". Even it's purpose is random.
I went to The Boat last night. It was a dark, dank, ambiguous feast for the senses.
I would assume it is named "The Boat" because of it's decor. It is fashioned as if you are were in the belly of an old sailing barge, complete with porthole mirrors on the wall. If I were to prescribe some sort of categorical label to the furnishings, I would call it 1970's Cheap Novelty Chic.
It smelled. Not one consistent smell of scent, but as you wandered the large low ceilinged space, there would be a wiff of body odour here mixed with a wiff of bad breath there and a wiff of a mixture of far too many B-rated colognes and perfumes.
Much like the combination of human and laboratory scents, the music was an odd combination of beats as well. Violent and rhthymical, yet often melodic. They music sounded as if it were the soundtrack for a ballet about putting a cat in a bath. Erratic and frantic, but, being music from a ballet, somehow easy to dance to and enjoyable.
My friends and I determined that The Boat was the mothership for the Toronto Arty Stylish Indie Young Crown, which is inevitably sexually ambiguous. (There was an even distribution of those couples making between straight and gay)
Point in case: The Man in the Yellow Sweater. He,at first, would dance very close to my girl friend. Then, he would dance close behind me. We were clearly in each other's personal space (which admittedly is much smaller on a dance floor, but even dimunitive in size, personal space does still exist at such a club, and we were clearly in each other's space). Most straight men oppose an obvious homosexual (or often any man at all) in their personal space, but The Man in the Yellow Sweater, was either oblivious to it, ambivalent to it, or just plain too high to care. Despite my efforts to make eyes at him and attract his attention, he was unresponsive. Gay? Straight? Bi? Who knows? This is the enigma of the Toronto Arty Stylish Indie Young Crowd.
The Boat was an adventure. Random. Unusual. But ultimately enjoyable.
If you haven't yet, it is time for a cruise!

I Suffer From Vertigo

I am a cinefile. I have become addicted to watching old movies. Spartacus, Psycho, Dr. Strangelove, 2001: A Space Oddysey, A Streetcar Named Desire, Cleopatra, and this evening, Vertigo.
Much like the hero of the the Alfred Hitchcock classic centered around the most common phobia, I desire to be both audience to and creator of fiction. Scotty (I feel I know him enough to refer to him by his nick name), both indulges in the fantastical schizo-psychology of the ARTificial Madeline. The outrageous and unbelievable qualities of her madness seem to attract Scotty. I am attracted to the dramatic and theatrical (or in this case cinematic) as much as Scotty is.
Scotty and I both share the inclination to (re)create these fictions in our own lives. I do so on the stage; either through direction, choreography, or writing. Scotty attempts to blend his reality with his fiction to such a point he is unable to differentiate, but by attempting this impossible feat, he realized the truth in the fiction and the lie of his reality.
This is the power of art.
We watch, read, and listen in order to escape our own life. And by experiencing a fiction we understand ourselves and our world more than we ever could by examining realtity.
I suffer from Vertigo, but let me look down upon the world. I will eventually focus and see everything for what it really is.

Drunk Post #1

Let me in.
Don't Shut Down.
At least not with me!

P.S. A D+ on an exam. The World is Not Right!

King Kong Is a Lesbian?

They all scream in terror. The huge ape is menacing and aggressive. Are they screaming in fear? Or are they screaming because the huge ape has a huge ape cock?

In the film King Kong, there is never any proof given that King Kong is, in fact, male. The average audience assumes that the ape must be male. He is after all violent, agressive, loud, rude, and in love with a female.

But what if....
What if...

King Kong was actually QUEEN KONG!

(I must admit that I have seen worse looking Lesbians at the gays bars I have frequented in Regina, Saskatchewan, so it is not out of the realm of possibility.)

What were are left with is a very subversive film, that would probably not just be condemned for it's lesbianism, but also for beastiality, which I remind you, was never a considered a criticism in any of the versions of the film that have been made to date.

Lesbiansim implies homosexuality. Homosexual romance, unlike heterosexual romance, implies sex. Therefore lesbian homosexual romance, must mean that sex is involved which would conclude the taboo act of bestiality. ("WON'T SOMEONE THINK OF THE CHILDREN?")

So if you venture out to see this season's holiday hit, King Kong, use your imagination and watch the greatest lesbian love story ever told!

If you are reading this, I suspect you may wonder why I haven't written in the past two weeks. I wish I could supply you with some profound answer, but the only response I can give is to relate unto you the activity of my life for the past while.

A show I was working on went on Tour to Ottawa. We spent four days in our nation's capital. The show was very well received and I had a great time. It served as a Pre-Birthday treat for myself.

The weekend back from Ottawa, I celebrated my birthday. I shopped and spent time with friends and wrote an essay. Responsible, but selfish and enjoyable - the best a Birthday can be (?)

The following week I caught up on all the school work I missed from my week in Ottawa. I have been productive.

Yesterday I auditioned for two commercials. It really is a crap-shoot, so who know! God I hope I get it. I hope I get it ! Cross your fingers.

Now I am here. Caught up (for the most part). Enjoying the fruits of my Birthday celebrations (I still have three bottles of wine to drink). In anticipation (Cross your fingers - one of the commercials shoot in Budapest!)

My long distance relationship of sorts (we aren't really boyfriends, but we do have a "relationship") is taxing. He reveals things about myself to me which are not easy to deal with. Is this healthy? It is difficult to tell the difference between dealing with the inevitable things of life, though they maybe difficult, or dealing with problems we construct for ourselves. I would assume the former to be healthy and the latter to be something requiring a "cure".


Am I happy?
No

Am I unhappy?
No

Life goes on...

Happiness is... Lessons Learned from a Musical About Charlie Brown

"Look! I've found a pencil. That little red-headed girl that I like dropped it. It has teeth marks on it. She chews her pencil! She's human. I guess is hasn't been a bad day after all.
(singing) Happiness is finding a pencil"
-from "You're A Good Man Charlie Brown" by Clark Gesner (1963)

Yes, Happiness can be derrived from things. From stuff. Physical inanimate objects can be the source of joy DAMN IT!. This is true for me.

I am happy.
Why?
Because I am now the proud father of a new iPod nano.
Because my sleek cell phone has polyphonic ring tones.
Because I purchased a new outfit from the sale rack at the GAP.

In our current culture, we are constantly bombarded with the ethics of finding happiness only through meaningful relationships or experiences.
I do not disagree with the importance being able to find happiness in those admirable ethereal things, but I think it is also human, and therefore beautiful, to be able to find happiness in those other things. The things we can buy.
Those shining new things.
Those new things that make us look cooler and more stylish.
Those things that are frivolous and luxurious.

Being happy is not a crime. You Will Not Make Me Feel Guilty!

Happiness is buying an iPod...
new funky ring tones...
a sale at the GAP...

Six Degrees of Separation OR the Magic of the Magic Oven

"I read somewhere that everybody on this planet is separated by only six other people. Six degrees of separation between us and everyone else on this planet. The President of the United States, a gondolier in Venice, just fill in the names. I find it extremely comforting that we're so close. I also find it like Chinese water torture, that we're so close because you have to find the right six people to make the right connection... I am bound, you are bound, to everyone on this planet by a trail of six people." -John Guare

I have found the right people. Or at least I think I have. They are at the Magic Oven. That is where I work for just above minimum wage three times a week.
I have the privilege to work with a 47 Year Old Romanian Gypsy, a Sri Lankan who looks like Ron Jeremy and wears an acid wash jean jacket all the time (we call him the Jean Machine), a Musical Theatre loving Phillipino who was educated as an Engineer in China, and a Persian hunk with gorgeous eyes who has a girlfriend in England. My bosses are a husband and wife couple from India and their families live in Paris, California, New Jersey, and Asia. Between my colleagues listed above, and the many others whom I have worked with over the past three years, I think there may be less than six, maybe even four degrees of separation between me and the rest of the world.
Even if that isn't so, I have had an amazing opportunity to see into these unique and varied human lives. All have experiences so far from what I could have imagined growing up in Regina, Saskatchewan.
Everyday is a revelation.
I think many a CEO, World Leader, Artist, and teacher could benefit from seeing the joy, diversity, and community that is the Magic of the Magic Oven.

Eye Opener: A Repsonse to My Wake Up Call

A friend of my sent me an email responding to my latest Blog posts.
It read:

Two things after reading your email:
Don't you mean you missed the Hindi holiday of DWALLI?

Also, if you've had such a pleasant few days I don't understand why you focus on the negative in your blog. Maybe you're focusing on the negative generally in your life. That's a problem.

First: The Hindi Holiday, which my Hindi boss informed me was the Hindi New Year, is called DWALLI

Second: Ultimately, self-awareness, which is what I feel I have articulated in my past Blog posts, is empowering. Being empowered is a positive thing. I would agree to see that focusing on the negative is problematic, but I would say that I am not focusing on the negative, but considering solutions.

PROGRESS!

The World Only Spins Forward.

It is only possible to focus on the negative if you give up.

I am empowered.

I feel good!

Wake Up Call Part II: Bad New Beginnings

I roll over, half asleep, expecting to see I have more time to sleep, this should be true because my alarm has not yet gone off. But instead, I am unpleasantly surprised. I am late. My alarm has failed me. This is a shitty way to start off the month of November.
I have a bizarre desire to start months, weeks, days off right - If it starts out bad, how am I supposed to hope that the rest of it will be any good? On this November 1st, the one the has somehow ruined the other 29 days of the month for me merely because I got up late and missed a class, I headed into work to not only realize that it was the first of the month, but for Hindi, it was the first of their New Year. Thank God I am not Hindi, but still, it would have been nice to start the New Year off, in whatever culture, as best as I can.
I have twenty days until my Birthday. I have failed to get the month of November off to a good start. I have failed to get the Hindi New Year off to a good start. But in twenty days, I will haven taken charge of my own life, so that I start off my twenty third year on this planet as best as is humanly possible.

Wake Up Call

I rolled over, opened my eyes to look at the digital clock next to my bed. My biological ticker usually was good at getting me to wake moments before my alarm was to go off. At the point that my body feels it has slept for too long and that I had other things to do, it usually steps in a takes over. My natural instincts are to wake up just before my alarm forces me to deal with the day. Most days my biological clock jumps the gun and wakes me a little early. Not today... Today all three of my alarm clocks failed, for reasons unknown to me.
This was an alarming alarm I couldn't ignore.
This exemplifies the lack of control or structure there is in my life. I am too eager to go on a whim and pass up the other responsibilities that I have taken on in my life. I am too social. I am too spontaneous. I need to step back, organize what needs to be done, set out the time I am to do it, write all that down the day planner I purchased months ago but haven't used since three days after I got it.
I can do well at school, I can do well at work, I can do well with my art, if I just bare down and put the effort in. I must be as committed to my life as I expect my life to be committed to me: If I want anything out of my time I have to put something into my time.
I will not deny that some of my experiences as a result of flighty spontaneaity have been incredible. But not it is time to take time for these other experiences that I have deemed valuable and worthwhile. If they are worth the while I should give them the while they deserve.
My alarms did not go off this morning, but I definately have heard the wake up call.